


Desirous

by Ophelia_Raine



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Romance, F/M, Fake Marriage, Free Will, Humor, Jealousy, Lucifer Morningstar Being Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Marcus Isn't Cain, OR IS HE, Rivalry, Sacrificial Love, Tagging as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26645674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: The One about JealousyAn end-of-S2E13 canon divergent tequila with a good twist of lemonIt’s me again. Voicemail 337.Two angsty months after Lucifer loves her and leaves her, Chloe Decker can finally say she’s in a good place. She’s fairly sure she’s in love with a healthy adult man who loves her back (very good), happens to be her new boss (not so good), and doesn’t refer to himself in mythological metaphors (excellent).So of course, who should decide to come waltzing right back to mess it the eff up? And with a bimbo in tow?
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 81
Kudos: 212





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apocketfulofwry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocketfulofwry/gifts).



> My constant writing muse with whom I am my true blue self. xx

_It’s me again. Voicemail 337._

_*_

He had better be dead. Or incapacitated. Or something. 

_Please let him not be dead._

He had better be lying on the floor stone-cold drunk and drooling. Or revenge-tied to the bed by scorned strippers. Or locked out on his fancy-schmancy balcony. Butt-naked. Balls freezing. 

_Please, please… just be there._

It never fails to boggle Chloe’s mind how little actual security LUX has, almost as if Lucifer is daring intruders to come rob him blind at all hours of the night. Or maybe he’s just so used to the revolving door of men and women gravitating up here like heat-seeking missiles. 

_Introducing… LA's Zombies for Sex._

She’s seen firsthand how they can be, of course. It’s almost like they can’t help themselves. 

_Well_ I _can’t help it, Detective. It’s not like this has an off switch._

He had better not be dead from too much sex. Not after… not after everything.

_Please be there. Please be there. Please be there._

The elevator pings softly and she holds her breath as the doors slide open with a whisper, one hand on her holster just in case. 

There’s ambient light at least; the backlight to his wall of bourbon is turned on low, and the floor-to-ceiling glass doors on the far side of the expansive room frame the City of Angels like a triptych. But his piano is closed, his favourite seat in the penthouse empty and cold. 

A hollow feeling starts to yawn in her gut as she treads softly past it, the vacuum of silence sucking her slowly into panic. A lump forms in her throat as her eyes strain to find him. 

_He’s not here. He’s gone. He’s really, really gone. Oh god._

“Hello, Detective.”

Chloe spins around, eyes suspiciously shiny.

“Oh good,” she snaps, furious. “You’re alive!” She turns on her sneakered heel and stalks off, ponytail swinging viciously. But his strides are swift and long, even in his calf-length silk robe, and he stops her before she can even reach the elevator button.

“Detective…”

“Don’t!” She holds up her hand, defences brittle and high. “I understand. I should have known. When things get serious, the last thing I should have expected was a manchild like you to rise to the occasion.”

“Detective…”

“I mean, it’s not like you’ve been dropping boulder-sized hints for months about sleeping with me. Or been constantly, _stupidly_ jealous of Dan. Or made my kid adore you even though you claim to loathe small humans. Or, I dunno, _saved_ _my life_ once or thrice. Except, oh wait—” She punches his bicep as hard as she can, “— _You. Effing. Did!_ ”

“Detective! Swear jar!” 

“I don't _believe_ you!” Her fist is smarting like hell now, pain shooting down her arm like she hit a brick wall but Lucifer only seems bewildered — which just adds insult to injury, really. “Were you ghosting me? Is that it?” She needs to know. “One little kiss, one more near-death experience, and you’re running for the hills?”

“Pot-kettle, Detective. I’ve not gone anywhere.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “ _You’re_ the one crossing the city to commit a B&E on my property at three in the morning. Does anyone know you’re gone yet?”

“Oh you are _such_ a piece of work,” she grits out. “The number of times you’ve helped yourself into _my_ house—”

“Chloe.”

At her name, she stops, her eyes blowing wide as he steps into her space. Slowly, like she’s a mangy feral — and she probably looks like one. In her haste, she’d only managed to find one decent hoodie and a passably decent pair of soft yoga pants in her hospital bag — the only sensible things Maze had packed that didn’t involve dressing like Catwoman. It hadn’t been ideal, but then neither was breaking out of UCLA Medical just so she can hunt down her partner like one of his stalkers.

He opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and shuts it again. Something like a haunted look flits over his face as he holds her gaze and for a terrible, guilty moment, she wonders if Lucifer is actually sad. They look at each other wordlessly, the silence filling in the void between with unasked questions and unformed answers.

She closes her eyes when the tips of his fingers brush her cheek. When he sweeps an errant lock of her hair and tucks it softly behind her ear so her skin pebbles, her body tingling down to her toes. She senses his open palm near her face and she can’t help herself now — she leans into it, cool skin warmed and calmed instantly by his touch. 

_He’s still here. He didn’t run away._

“Chloe,” he says in a low voice, and he never calls her that, hardly ever. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m fine. They say I’m going home in a couple of days. Max.”

“You’re still recovering.”

“I’m fine!” Her eyes snap open now and stare back up at him, defiant. She won’t let him change the subject so easily. 

“Why didn’t you answer my calls!”

He drops his hand and turns away, and she comes after him like a dog on a scent. “Answer me, Lucifer. I know you don’t lie. Was it because I was dying?”

He glances at her. “Of course not, Detective.”

“Well, then was it because I didn’t die, but finally woke up? Because I don’t understand it, Lucifer. Everyone — every nurse, every doctor, even Carol at the front reception downstairs tells me how you never left my side. You’re the hero of the building, Lucifer. They all tell me how you found the formula somehow, even though it was impossible. They even joke that you must have made some Faustian bargain…”

Lucifer visibly flinches, but she soldiers on.

“And after that, you just... stayed there. Beside me. While I slept like the dead for days. They couldn’t budge you, everyone says. So they stopped trying.” 

“We almost lost you.” His voice sounds funny now. Almost hoarse. “I shouldn’t have wasted so much time. I cocked up, Detective. Monumentally. If you had died because I was such an absolute booby to walk into my own hell loop…” He shakes his head when he sees he loses her in the metaphor. 

“So I wake up, and that’s it?” Chloe’s struggling to understand. “Crisis over, and then you… what, exactly? Pretend nothing ever happened?”

“You’ve just been through a lot, Detective.” And she has. But that’s not why he’s kept away and they both know it.

“Is it because we’d kissed? Before my poisoning?” 

And as soon as he freezes, she leans into her intuition, impatience flaring as she senses how warm she is to the truth. He stares down at her hand when she slips it over his wrist and she watches as he swallows when she brings his hand back up to cradle her face. 

“Were you scared to lose me, is that it?” she asks, her voice barely over a whisper as she takes yet another small step toward him. “Did that make you, maybe, feel things you didn’t want to feel? Like a loss of control?”

And she sees it finally, right there in his beautiful, dark eyes. Something like fear seeping in.

“Detective, I can’t…” he begins, sounding almost desperate even as his bottomless eyes drink her in thirstily. “I just couldn’t stay and — knowing what I know now — let this… let us…”

“I was scared too, Lucifer.” She raises her own hand now and cups his face, something she’s wanted to do in forever. “The entire time before I lost consciousness, all I could think about was missed opportunities and roads not taken. I felt robbed. Like all my life choices were about to be stolen from me!”

He makes a noise like a cross between a baffled giggle and a strangled cry.

“But don’t you see? Thanks to you… I’m back.” She’s smiling now, finally, relief and gratitude and a rush of something else far deeper, the blend softening her features and melting her panic and confusion. “And I plan to make a great recovery. And your Dad willing,” she adds playfully, remembering how funny he gets about God, “I’ll have plenty of life left to make my choices. And Lucifer Morningstar,” she breathes, closing the final distance between them. “I choose y—”

“Don’t!”

Chloe blinks. One moment, she was almost pressed up against him but now he’s standing by the doors to his balcony on the other side of the room, his back to her as he stares at the city before him.

She crosses the room to him instantly, her need for answers momentarily trumping the weird physics. “What do you mean, _don’t?_ ”

“I have to protect you!” When she touches his shoulder uncertainly, he turns and looks at her, begging her with his eyes to understand without question. “Please… just let me protect you.”

“But you’ve done nothing but protect me!” Frustration floods into her words now. She can’t help it. This is all so maddening and _Lucifer_ and confusing. “I’ve said it before and I still mean it — you’re the best partner I’ve ever had. Bar none. And I know you have my back. I know you’ll always have my back. I _literally_ trust you with my life!” 

But all that does is incite a low groan from him. The sound cuts her to the quick and she shrinks from him finally.

“I don’t understand,” she mumbles, her lip almost quivering even though her voice holds steady. “Lucifer, please. Don’t you… don’t you care about me?”

His shoulders slump as if in defeat.

“Detective, of course I care about you.”

“Then why—”

But his mouth is already on hers, dry and burning and hot, and she freezes just for a moment before she melts like a foregone conclusion, sinking into him as she feels him soak her in. Their tongues meet, then dance soft and slow, tiny waves of shivers cascading down her back as they do. His hands fall on her face, her shoulders, her hips, as if clutching at tufts of grass and vines and leaves on his descent, as if he’d just pitched himself off of a high and mighty cliff and he’s falling in spite of himself. 

Like a foregone conclusion.

One of them gasps, or perhaps they both do, the sound swollen with surprise and such obvious _need_ that something like civility cracks between them.

And then the dam breaks. 

She reaches up into the nape of his neck now, her fingers digging and grasping and greedy, a fiery collision as they cling to one another, both desperate to feed and consume. She feels his hands roving her back possessively before they clutch her top, big bunches of sandwashed cotton in his large hands as he holds her fast to him and kisses the breath out of her. 

The utter mutuality of it, absolute and borderless and equal, threatens to overwhelm her. It is like they’re spellbound, each powerless to pull away, neither wanting to. Vaguely, she wonders if she’s finally succumbed to that handy, time-saving animal magnetism the station constantly whispers about. If he’s finally, _finally_ bewitched her. Except she’s fairly certain now that she is the one who had long bewitched him. 

Then his kisses grow adventurous, wandering from mouth to cheek, to chin, to crevices in and around the neck. When his straight Grecian nose, his breath scalds the sensitive folds of her ear, when his tongue — deft and devious — follows after, both her knees buckle and sag and he laughs, the sound rich and throaty and joyous, before he does it again. And again. 

His hands are firm on her hips now, his long fingers splayed so they almost grip her ass. In one delicious move, he tilts and rolls her hips slowly into his own then presses in tight, his dark eyes burning into hers so she is left in no doubt as for whom Lucifer Morningstar is desirous.

She’s shaking now but — astonishingly, endearingly — so is he, and she trusts him completely as he walks her backwards until her calves hit the end of his wraparound sofa. And then he is lowering her slowly, gently, until her back is flush against the Italian leather, the cool of it seeping through her thin hoodie to her bare skin. 

He eases himself over her, bracing his weight with easy athleticism, his thick, slippery robe gaping wide so it is only too easy for her to pull each side off his broad shoulders until his ripped torso, the magnificent expanse of his chest are laid warm and bare to her. She presses a hand to his heart and watches as his eyes darken, as his hand reaches up to find her own, fingers lacing with hers over her head as her right leg hitches high and twines around his left. She wants to hold him down as much as she can, to eliminate even the minutest space between their bodies, if only to convey in so many ways what she feels for this man. And then she _feels_ him; the press of his erection nestling between her legs and she rocks him gently there like a cradle so he groans.

Still, he’s careful not to crush her, the rest of him hovering over her body, the generous width of his seat cushions still too narrow for his towering frame so that entwined, they almost resemble a cocoon of their own making, the hallowed air around them intoxicating and intimate. He is such a beautiful man, she thinks, as she gazes up at him. But she senses his hesitation now and eventually he speaks, his voice velvet and low but brimming with guilt. With the back of his hand, he strokes her cheek. It feels like reverence.

“Detective…” he starts.

“Chloe,” she affirms before she surges up suddenly, capturing his lips with her own to chain his thoughts, her hips dipping then swivelling into his so he moans into her mouth again and jerks. She feels the length of him through layers of silk and thin cotton and she is shamelessly and determinedly wet for him, her arousal seeping right through.

At first he doesn’t move, even as she writhes under him with increasing desperation until she finds the perfect streak of friction she needs and settles into a carnal rhythm all on her own. He stares down at her, almost indignant with frustration and something else, and she’s just about to sob or yell back when she feels the unyielding length of him glide against her _there_ and _there again_. Her head falls back on the leather as her body arches slightly, the tips of her breasts rubbing almost painfully against the fabric and when he curves his body, when he dips his head to mouth a mound hungrily, hot breath seeping through breathable cotton, she damn well almost loses her mind.

 _They’re not even naked yet,_ a desperate voice in her head bleats at her frantically. But by the time she registers the crest of pleasure rolling in, it is far too late and there is nothing left to do except ride through the wave when it hits. She comes _hard_ there and then on his couch, fully clothed and thoroughly cognizant that this is something more than just two years of pent-up desire finding release. That this is _other_ — unprecedented, engulfing, primal, and knitted to her very essence. 

And so when she comes, it is an unravelling. It is Open. Honest. _Loud_. She can’t hide from him even if she wants to and from the look on his face as her bliss flows out of her like the tide, there’s no way in hell he doesn’t understand what just happened to her.

“Oh god,” she groans and then groans again for her faux pas. Lucifer opens his mouth and then closes it again. For once, he looks overawed.

“Sorry,” she offers for the slip of the tongue. She refuses to apologise for coming so soon and over a few minutes of high school dry rutting, even though her embarrassment is thick and is starting to blotch her cheeks.

He shakes his head, still seemingly speechless — which is a novelty in itself. Until tonight, Chloe has never seen Lucifer Morningstar pass up an opportunity for a quip or a tease. This night is just full of surprises.

His reticence being the biggest surprise of all.

“Lucifer…” she tries but he is already pulling away, the loss of his heat hitting her almost as hard as her orgasm. She struggles to sit up, hurt blazing in her eyes. 

“Why won’t you have sex wi—”

“Because, my darling, stubborn Detective, whether you like it or not, you’re still recuperating from a damn well near-successful poisoning. And the last thing your _unbelievably_ responsive, gorgeous body needs, really, is to go on a bloody pogo-stick marathon and risk the side effects of an orgasm or twenty!”

_Twenty!_

He stands beside the couch now, pulling his robe back over his shoulders before he offers her his hand. She snubs it entirely and pulls herself up to stand, but sways almost instantly as her traitorous jelly legs give out.

“Whoa…”

“Woe, indeed.” And without even asking, he slips an arm under her knees and sweeps her up easily, as if she weighs nothing at all. He mounts the short steps to his room and then gently deposits her in the middle of his massive bed, the thread count sinful and soothing beneath her skin as he removes her sneakers. 

“Stay,” she pleads with him, already guessing his intention and he hesitates, his eyes dark and conflicted. Then he seats himself gingerly on the edge of the bed, his body twisting around to face her fully.

“It’s a terrible idea.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

“And I want _you_.”

“You don’t know that,” he replies tiredly which only makes her want to scoff or hit him or hold him. She doesn’t understand the mental block, why he won’t let himself believe this, why he refuses to embrace what she feels even when she’s literally standing in front of him, offering herself freely.

She'd just spontaneously combusted rather publicly on his couch, for crying out loud. She doesn’t even come that fast with her favourite bullet vibe.

“Stay,” she tries again, scooching to the right and patting the space between. His gaze is, again, inscrutable. Almost as if he’s committing her face to memory.

“Don’t make a girl beg,” she begs and this time, he nods solemnly, almost as if he’s resigned to a fate that is out of his control. Her heart skips a beat as he absently tugs at his waist tie before shrugging out of his robe, tossing it carelessly in a heavy silk heap on the foot of the bed. The last thing that sears her mind like a branding iron is the sight of Lucifer Morningstar — perfect, smooth, naked and very, very firm — before he flicks the switch on the side lamp and plunges the room into darkness.

She had every intention to behave and she does, feeling the heat of his presence when he slides under the covers. All this time, she’d always thought he’d doused himself in some insanely expensive cologne from an obscure European brand she can’t pronounce without inviting his teasing. But tonight, she learns that he always smells like oud and vanilla and dark woods and seduction under a starry sky. That the scent is in his sheets, in his clothes, in his pillows, in his skin. In the crease behind his ear where it tickles. In the hollow of his hips leading down where he is firm and moist, strong and tender. 

She had every intention to behave, and she does. But the moment he turns to her and covers her mouth with his, she is so very willingly lost. Her need for him flares instantly, and her hand slips over his stubble-roughened cheek, holding him to her hungrily.

“Slowly,” he reminds her or maybe it’s wishful thinking. Her thin top is already off, her pants in a tangled heap towards the foot of the bed. Thanks to Maze, she’s not wearing a bra and he mouths and sucks both her breasts, licking her nipples taut, pinching and biting them gently so her body sings, sighs leaving her long, pale throat as she luxuriates in his fine attention. 

She’d always imagined him feral and raunchy in bed, his razor-sharp tongue knowing and rapacious and dirty and quippy. She had imagined being utterly devoured and hollowed out, his technique and skill unmatched, his face aglow with satisfaction whenever he’d bring her off like a maestro. She’d imagined always having to play catch up, that he’d bring more than enough to the table to cover her inadequacies, that his appetites are voracious and boundless. Playful. Punishing. 

But never, in all her wettest dreams and wild imaginings, did she picture this worship of her. Nor this reverence as he explores her folds, eyes piercing hers even in the dark as his powerful, expressive fingers brush gently over her sex, still soaked and a little swollen from her recent release. Nor how slowly he can move, how incremental, how patiently he can draw out a caress and string out desire until it is bowstring-tight, until lights seem to spark behind her eyelids as his long fingers plunder her so very precisely, his pace almost lazy except for how closely he watches each response, how he tunes himself to her until she twitches and writhes and pants, his own swollen erection nudging close by in a pale mimicry of her dark pleasure. 

She should return the favour, at the very least a furtive handjob even though he deserves so, _so_ much more. But she is already wrung out, her body no longer really her own as she feels herself drift into pure sensation, keening for completion. He was right, the infuriating man. She is exhausted.

“Lucifer…” she whispers in the dark, when she thinks she cannot stand the sharpness of her thirst anymore. And then she feels him, firm and velvet at her entrance. His eyes are still dark orbs filled with doubt and desire, and she wishes desperately that he’d stop questioning what she wants, once and for all.

“Please,” she invites him, sliding her legs further apart. He sighs in capitulation. And before she can beg, he slides fully into her in one long, continuous stroke, knocking the air out her lungs so her ecstasy is silent.

This time, when he moves, there is nothing sweet or soft or slow. It’s as if the invisible ties that had kept him in check before had loosed or snapped and he takes her now, exactly as she wants to be taken. Every plunge fills her utterly so there cannot possibly be room for another thought. It’s like he’s reached into her innermost self and she’s now, irrevocably, fused to him.

She wants all of him — unequivocal, undoubting, unrelenting. And in return she gives everything she has left inside of her back to him — every reserve and store of erotic energy, every good and loving wish, every ounce and fibre of her being. 

And then she is free-falling, cries choked in her throat as she clenches and pulses helplessly, tears lacing shut her eyes. Faraway she hears him moan, a sound so primal that she scratches down his back without meaning to. And then she rains kisses on his nose, his eyes, the corners of his mouth, his neck, the hollow of his collarbone.

He looks at her like a man memorising her face and it is a wonderful and terrible thing. Her heart catches and trips. 

And then her eyes close and she is lost in a fugue where she knows nothing else except the smell of oud and vanilla, of ancient trees and seduction under a starry sky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is me, quite brand new to Lucifer, even newer to this ship, and still finding my way around here. I haven't written in ages, but then I haven't had me loins stirred quite so decidedly until they made the devil 6'4" and wear Prada. (Oh me loins!)
> 
> I like people and give virtual hugs & kisses liberally. Feel free to chatter.


	2. Two Months Later

It really is amazing how time changes things.

Take herself, for instance. Seven weeks ago and she was still mooning around the house like a tragic, every last moment in that stupid penthouse replayed in slo-mo through the schmaltzy vaseline-smudged filter of her memories. Sting wailing on full blast. 

But then she got to the Rage stage of grief, and that was infinitely more satisfying. She had company, then. Maze — and that bag of angry toys that should be more illegal — had been _great_ company, then.

And now… now she finally feels more like her old self.

Chloe touches her lips gently and allows herself one last soft smile as she remembers the last night before she carefully tucks it all away and straightens her face. 

She’s got work to do. And things are already delicate as it is.

“Anything more on the calling card?” she asks without preamble. There are bags of evidence from the dead judge case still in various stages of analysis and Ella is especially hyper today — how she always is when she’s in her element, it’s juicy, and there’s time pressure. As it is, the legal eagles are understandably in a flap; no one in Central District is thrilled about one of their own getting lynched in his own home, choked and gagged by his own sizeable collection of gaudy watches. 

“No prints, looks like a home printer job,” Ella confirms, her eyebrows furrowed. She’s wearing her ‘Little Devil’ T-shirt under her jacket today — the second time in just as many weeks — and Chloe makes it a point not to stare or think too much about it.

“How about you?” 

“Needle in a haystack,” Chloe admits with a grimace. 

“Bond court judges not really the fan favourite with petty offenders, huh.”

“Especially this one,” Chloe agrees. By all accounts so far, Judge Plazinski had been a crabby jackass, renowned for running his courtroom like an assembly line working on a double order. The bar attorneys still call him the Douche Machina. Cobbling together a list of suspects has been like drinking from a fireman’s hose. 

The only thing going in their favour right now is that calling card. Except calling cards usually mean there’s a sequel or even a prequel. 

“Where’s a devil when you need one!” Ella grumbles, and then instantly shoots Chloe a guilty look. “Sorry. Still too soon?”

“Not at all,” she replies smoothly, suddenly interested in squinting down Ella’s microscope.

“Well then, I just want to say that he has the _worst_ timing, _ever!_ No satanic ritual killings for eighteen months and then just when we need Lucifer in all his method I’m-The-Devil glory — _bam_ , he AWOLs! I’m so mad, I could… I could…”

“Squeeze the life out of him?”

“YES! Although, he really does give the best hugs — no offence to present company. It’s probably his arm span and the muscle tone,” Ella analyzes thoughtfully. “And that _incredible_ cologne you just want to bottle up and bootleg...”

Chloe clears her throat. “How’s Dan doing?”

Ella shakes her head. “Baaaaad. At least with Lucifer, we _kinda_ suspect he’s alright? Probably livin’ la vida loca in Sydney or Ibiza, or something. But with Charlotte… Dan did another ring around the morgues the other day, looking for Jane Does,” Ella lowers her voice, eyes round and troubled. “He didn’t find anything, but the look on his face... I don’t know if that’s better, honestly.”

Chloe’s mouth goes a little dry and she swallows slowly before she asks, “Did Dan… run a check for Lucifer too?”

“No, I sure as hell didn’t,” Dan answers flatly at the doorway. The bags under his eyes look even worse under the fluorescents overhead, like he hadn’t slept more than five continuous hours in days. At his ex-wife’s stricken look, he glowers even harder.

“Pierce wants to see you,” he tells her shortly, and then leaves the room without so much as a backward glance. 

She ignores the knowing look that Ella gives her now as she mumbles her excuses and strips off her gloves. Lieutenant Marcus Pierce’s office is just a short walk across the way from the lab and Chloe is careful to keep her eyes trained on his closed door — and avoid the increasingly suspicious eyes of the room— as she makes quick strides to it. She gives it a sharp rap.

“Come in,” he calls out brusquely, and Chloe does as she’s told, closing the door after her.

“You asked for me?”

“I did,” he replies, not looking up from the report in front of him. Chloe comes right up to his desk and stands on the other side of it, trying to read the man and feeling a little deflated as she waits. After all, they’d just parted less than eight hours ago and with distinctly fewer barriers between them. It’s a little jarring right now to be pointedly ignored — even if he _is_ back to being Boss, along with the enduring reputation for being a taciturn hardass.

Marcus Pierce is not always taciturn, she knows that now. But he does have quite a firm ass. 

As if reading her thoughts, he looks up suddenly, face still stern though their eyes meet. Something inside her folds in relief when she sees a small twinkle in his eye. 

“Got a new case for me, sir?”

“No,” he replies nonchalantly and rises from his seat. She watches him as he comes around the table, stepping aside to make way for him as he settles directly in front of her, casually resting the firm ass in question on the edge of his big boss table.

“I checked in with Ella on the dead judge case,” she continues earnestly.

“And?”

“Nothing on the card.”

“So I heard.”

“Dan is still cross-checking suspects against their religious affiliations. More a process of elimination. I’m still in interviews.”

“Good.”

Something flutters inside her as he flicks a glance past her shoulder. The louvres of his office window blinds, drawn at various lengths, are partially slanted close and he seems satisfied enough with the view to draw her to him suddenly so she’s now standing between his legs.

Very nice.

“Lieutenant,” she murmurs approvingly.

“Chloe,” he returns the smile, her eyes already closing, his face moving slowly towards hers before freezing suddenly.

“What is it?” she whispers as he straightens, their bodies parting like guilty, repelling magnets.

“Lopez.”

Ella is indeed squinting through the blinds and as soon as she realises she’s been spotted, all five-feet-two of her starts bouncing on the spot and mouthing words Chloe can’t read. Now she’s pointing and waving — first at Chloe, and then at something happening off the side of Marcus’s office.

Dan comes into view behind Ella just then and stares straight at Chloe through a gap in the blinds. Her stomach drops. He looks almost murderous.

“Something’s happened,” she breathes almost to herself as she reaches for the door. Dan beats her to it, opening it wide to let her through. When she passes him, he gives her a strange look.

“Brace yourself,” he warns in a low voice only she can hear, “I’m here for you.” 

Most everyone is already gathering at the foot of the bifurcated stairs leading down to Homicide. Even staff from the other floors are making their way down out of curiosity and at first, she can’t make out where the source of all the growing excitement is. 

It’s only when she hears his voice that she jolts as if shot.

“No need to rush, darlings — there’s _plenty_ here for everyone,” Lucifer’s mellifluous timbre caresses the curious throng. And then she sees him as he glides partway up the middle stair like a broadway star about to do his opening number. 

_Sinfully black single-breasted Armani, red pocket square folded and tucked. Hair perfectly coiffed. Scruff meticulously manscaped._

_Alive._

Right now, he’s handing out gifts from a giant Santa Claus bag, reading out names on the tag as he goes. “Just some souvenirs,” he chirps as someone rips hers open and squeals, then bursts into tears. “We were _so_ excited, Candy and I, we came _straight_ here — didn’t we, darling? Didn’t even pop home first to get changed.”

 _Home?_ Chloe’s gut twists as her heart starts to hammer.

Lucifer takes two steps down and holds out his arm gallantly before retrieving something glittery and pink from the throng. And Chloe watches as a diminutive bombshell of bouncing boobs and blonde curls climbs the stairs to claim her place under his left arm, by his side. 

It is in this moment that the morning light spills down the stairs and lights them like a blessing from the very heavens that Lucifer usually grumbles about. There’s a small collective _awww_ as she reaches up to lace her fingers in his, giggling like a girl as she does. And from where Chloe stands, their wedding rings taunt and wink in the sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one this time, but I thought I'd put this out there so we can collectively yell at Lucifer before we move on. :-)


	3. Honey, I'm Home

He notices her straightaway, of course. The way he used to notice the air change as soon as she entered any room — and not at all in a bad way. Not like Detective Douche after a curry and heartburn, say. 

No, it’s a prickle on the back of the neck. It’s a whisper of something across the tips of his fingers. It’s the way his heart seems to pull and flushes blood down low. 

Two months and he thought he’d finally had his tenderest bits under control. But then she comes striding out of _his_ office and changing the very air so he forgets to breathe. If it’s even possible after the chaos of these last weeks, seeing her again feels worse and infinitely better than ever before — thanks be to Dad. 

_You meddling, manipulative sonofa — literally —_ no one _._

The Detective is still waiting for him after the last well-wisher mumbles his stunned thanks and half-baked congratulations. As if sensing the changing gears, Candy tucks in closer beside him. For good measure, she tosses her pinky blonde ringlets behind her shoulders so that her enviable décolletage is laid very bare, cloying fruity perfume curling up from deep within that marvellous cleavage. 

Underneath his jacket, he feels Candy’s hand slip ‘round his waist and give a reassuring squeeze. And so, before he can think too hard about any of it, he slings an arm easily around his new wife’s sequined shoulder and saunters down the steps, a wide grin fixed carefully on his devilishly handsome mug.

“Detective!” he calls out cheerily. He holds up a gift box gleefully like a child at Christmas — ironic, yes — and waves it in front of her stony face. “We got you some~thing…” he singsongs a little as Candy bounces on the spot and flutters her hands like a baby seal.

“Oh this is _so_ fun!” she enthuses, eyes shining as she beams at Chloe. “Isn’t my honey so generous? And his memory is uh-mazing — he told me he remembers every single person’s secret desire. Everybody! And so to celebrate us saying ‘I do’, he got everyone at the station something they’ve always wanted!” She sighs dreamily. “It’s like I married Oprah or some great philanderer.”

“Er… _philanthropist_ , Candy,” Lucifer corrects hastily with an indulgent smile before turning back to the detective, his eyes sweeping over her face, curious for her reaction.

For a moment, he thinks he catches her jaw tighten but her visage — such an open book to him before — remains closed. Blank, almost. Maybe even bored.

It’s not quite what he had been expecting.

“Aren’t you going to open your gift?” he asks, still smiling brilliantly. The detective stares at him evenly before slowly taking the box from his hand, careful not to touch him. She sets it down absently on the desk behind. It’s not even hers. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks quietly. She’s staring at his topmost buttonhole, or maybe his throat, absolutely refusing to meet his eye even though he’s bending down now to try and catch hers. And even though Candy is fidgeting beside him like a child, it’s almost as if his Vegasly-legal wife doesn’t exist to the detective.

Lucifer straightens and blinks. “Why, I’m here to see you, of course! And to show Candy where I work.”

“I thought you made it patently clear you didn’t want to work here anymore.”

“Detective…” he replies, frowning slightly. “Of course I still want to work here. With you.”

It’s the first sign of emotion he’s seen on her face since she realised he’d noticed her. There’s a flash of something fierce but then it’s gone again and her face is back to porcelain-smooth like how it gets sometimes when she’s interviewing suspects.

_Good times._

“I don’t think I’ve made myself clear,” she replies carefully. Blandly. Tightly. “You _can’t_ work here anymore. And definitely not as my partner.”

“But... why the hell not!”

Her head snaps up to stare at him now, her expression incredulous. Scornful, almost. “You _left!_ ” she reminds him flatly. Her nostrils flare delicately.

“But now I’m here, aren’t I!” Lucifer points out logically. “Ergo, it’s back to work time!” He smiles encouragingly. Candy nods along dutifully while she tugs her pink dress down. It only deepens her cleavage. 

“My feet hurt,” she announces to no one in particular, then toddles off in her silver heels to perch on a nearby desk.

Still the detective ignores her entirely, looking instead into his face for a long moment. Lucifer lets her, melting a little with her attention at last and staring back down at her like it’s a distant dream realised. The station seems to fade away around them.

But her forehead creases as she stares back, and it’s like she’s searching carefully for something — some kind of truth she won’t just come right out and ask for. Eventually, however, her face closes up again and her forehead smooths but he gets the distinct sense that he’s disappointed her. 

“You know what, nevermind…” she says now, her tone prim, visage muted once again. “It’s not up to me anyway. The Lieutenant decides these things.”

 _Of course,_ thinks Lucifer, lips thinning. _The Lieutenant._

As if on cue, Marcus Pierce heads straight for them now in long, purposeful strides, large heavy arms oddly unmoving as if his underarm pitties got glued close. _He’s got the charm of a burnt tree stump,_ Lucifer surmises even from here as he feels his hackles rise, all the more when the detective visibly relaxes and nods at him over Lucifer’s shoulder. She actually looks relieved to see him. Even happy. 

“Oh good, it’s you,” Lucifer starts, nose wrinkling. “I’m Lucifer Morning—”

“I know who you are,” Marcus Pierce cuts in brusquely. “You think I run this station and don’t know who you are?” 

“Lieutenant,” the detective explains now, her face coming to life at last. “I was just telling to Mr Morningstar—”

“Mr Morningstar!”

“—that he can’t just waltz in here and expect to have his old job back. I told him,” she adds, looking meaningfully at the tree stump, “that ultimately it’s your call.”

From his periphery, Lucifer finally spies two other faces he knows well: the dour Detective Douche — looking vaguely threatening and utterly unkempt — and the very lovely Miss Lopez who is, right now, futilely miming the Facebook relationship status of the Lieutenant and the Detective. From her hand gestures, it apparently involves lots of hand-holding, some pecking, and a hole and one finger. Golf, maybe.

“You’re right,” the Lieutenant nods. “It is my call. And as it happens, I just got one too. We got a fresh one.” 

The detective’s eyes widen as some kind of penny drops. “There’s a calling card,” she guesses from the look on the Lieutenant’s face. “We’ve got a serial killer, then?”

“Looks like it, Decker.” Marcus glances at Lucifer, then looks straight at the detective. A few cogs seem to turn under all that thick hair before he jerks his head toward Lucifer. “He’s coming with you.”

“What!” The detective stiffens straight after. “I mean… are you sure, Lieutenant!”

Marcus Pierce nods slowly. “Yes. Bring him along.” He turns and looks at Lucifer appraisingly, as if sizing him up. “He might be able to explain some things.”

“Lieutenant!” 

But the Lieutenant is already walking back to his office. “Better get a move on, Decker. This one seems to work fast.” 

There’s a look that passes between the both of them that is entirely theirs and doesn’t include Lucifer in the slightest. He stares at the wordless exchange, a gnawing void opening in his chest.

“Here…” Ella nudges him slightly at his elbow, placing a clear plastic evidence bag in his hand. It takes a full moment for Lucifer to realise what he’s looking at.

The calling card. About half the size of a standard business card with a crude little stick figure horned devil. 

“In Satan’s Service,” Lucifer reads the back, before rolling his eyes. 

*

Hell would freeze over before she let Candy Morningstar in her car and Chloe barely manages to ground out the address to Lucifer before she slips off to the rooftop garage where she’s parked and he can’t.

It’s only when she’s completely alone in her car and peeling away from them that she starts whacking the steering wheel with her hands like a lunatic till they hurt. 

Her _teeth_ hurt.

Her chest hurts. 

But it had gone well, all things considered. If he had expected a scene, she hadn’t given him one. She had not indulged him, or exploded like some jilted teenaged girl, or demanded an explanation for Candy, or even snarked about how he’d finally found his perfect match. She’d given him nothing but apathy, which is the surest way to starve his narcissism. 

And it seems to have worked so far. He hadn’t even tried on his infuriating Devil persona as an excuse for basically one-night-standing his own partner. If he had, then God help him because she sure as hell wouldn’t have. They’d have to pick shrapnel from his balls for _weeks_ if he had so much as whispered about how the devil made himself do it.

She pulls over to the side of the road suddenly, the blare of irate horns barely registering as she kills the engine and suddenly shakes and shakes and cannot stop. And then she’s properly crying, like she promised herself she wouldn’t.

But he’s safe, he’s fine, he’s not dead, he’s alive!

But he’d left her. _After_. 

But he’d saved her life. And then he’d hardly left her side.

Except he _did_ leave her, in the end. He _had_ been ghosting her, whether he admitted to it or not. She’d known that night, deep down, that he’d been freaked out over something. That he’d been fighting his own demons that night. Even when they’d come together.

It’s the only reason she knew straight away that he had done a runner. That he wasn’t hurt or dead. That he was gone because he was just… Lucifer. 

It’s the only reason she must move on. As he so obviously has.

As _she_ has too, she reminds herself sternly.

“Drink a cup of concrete and harden the fuck up, Chloe Jane Decker!” she seethes out loud, pulling down the sun visor viciously to check her reflection in the mirror. Her nose is a little red, but it should clear by the time she gets to the house. She scrubs her face with a spare tissue till it disintegrates, and screws up her courage before she heads back into traffic. 

They are, of course, already there when she pulls up at the scene and she strides right up to the Morningstars, who appear to be making balloon animals out of disposable gloves.

“No,” she snaps before they even start talking, yanking the latex udders away before Lucifer juggles them. “You want in? You work. And you—” she points to the walking pair of air tits, “— back in the car. One is more than enough,” she can’t help adding fervently.

“It’s alright, Candy. I’ll come fill you in later,” he assures her silkily with a megawatt smile, and Chloe tries — and fails — not to read into _that_. She waits impatiently as he opens Candy’s door and slips her back into his black Corvette. _Or theirs,_ as Chloe needs to remind herself as she stares at the pair of pink fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror. 

The vic, as it turns out, was the Reverend of the local Episcopal church. And just like the dead judge, he’d been killed first — a hunting knife across the neck today — and then his mouth stuffed, this time with cash. The card had been slipped into the vic’s breast pocket, where it would easily be found.

“What do you think this means?” she asks Lucifer at length after she checks for signs of a struggle. “There’s no forced entry. The Reverend had possibly known his killer, or at least didn’t think of them as a threat.”

“Money stuffed in the mouth,” Lucifer muses, coming to stand beside her. She’d forgotten how tall he really is. “Passing attempt at poetry, at best... Angry parishioner, maybe? Does the Reverend not lead by example, perhaps? Wouldn’t be the first time,” he scoffs softly, more to himself. “Someone wanting our Rev to put his money where his mouth is?”

“A parishioner?” Chloe is sceptical. “Killing off their priest in Satan’s Service?”

“Don’t mock, Detective. Zealots are zealous, after all.” Lucifer wrinkles his nose. “As you know from the last kerfuffle with our hobby satanists, I don’t much care for this sort of attention…”

Chloe manages not to snort.

“But I see it all the time, Detective,” he tells her in earnest now. “It’s often the disillusioned, traumatised ones that snap and go the other extreme.”

Chloe stills instantly, but Lucifer doesn’t notice.

“The simpler ones are usually mollified with sex — nothing quite cleanses the palate like rumpy-pumpy after an excruciating wait, after all,” he grins hollowly. “But it’s the ones invested most who fall the hardest — they’re the ones who go off the deep end and end up exactly where they shouldn’t, just to escape what they used to be. And when it comes to the devoted, sometimes their affections are redirected towards… well… _me_.” He shrugs. “Or the silliest ideas of me anyway. I never can stand their fascination with goats...”

“You could always ask him,” Ella nods at the dining room to where two people are seated. “Father and son. Father’s the pastor of some non-denominational church five miles from here. The vic and the Father were supposed to have coffee and prayer today. Both of them found the dead priest and called 911.” She stops to point straight at Lucifer. 

“You’re still in the doghouse — just so you know,” she scolds him sternly, before breaking into a huge grin. “But I’m so glad you’re here. Oh my god, I was just telling Decker how we could have really used your mojo for the dead judge case.”

“Dead judge?”

“Dead bond judge, single bullet to the head, gold Rolexes stuffed in his mouth ‘In Satan’s Service’,” Chloe rattles off perfunctorily. “You coming?” She tips her head towards the dining room and walks off without waiting for him.

“Of course, partner.”

She freezes in mid-stride, her jaw clenched. “You,” she says quietly, a death grip on the doorpost, “are not my partner anymore.”

*

“Well,” Lucifer smiles, looking around him with obvious relief and no small pleasure, “this is Home Sweet Home.” He looks back down at her quizzically.

“You wouldn’t want me to carry you across the threshold, would you?”

Candy laughs. “Um… no, Lucifer. I think we can safely leave that one out, thank you.” 

He smiles genially and there’s an almost shy awkwardness between them before he takes her bags and wheels them up to his room. Candy doesn’t follow him, not yet anyway. It’s not entirely clear to her if she even ought to.

She’s met all sorts at Fletcher’s, of course. One doesn’t grow up in a bar in Vegas and leave without at least two handfuls of stories to tell. She had sized him up the instant she’d seen him — uncharacteristically dishevelled hair, crisp white shirt distractedly unbuttoned, dark custom suit, and a wildness in his eyes that’d suggested either murder or heartbreak. 

She hadn’t quite believed him when he’d told her that he was just recovering from putting his mother away in a nursing home for good. “Except it’s not so much a nursing home as a witness protection program on steroids. In a galaxy far, far away.”

“Is that all?” she had asked, after she had light-fingered his ring and money clip and he had retrieved the former but left her the change. 

“One thing you must know about me, darling,” he had purred. “I never lie.”

“Alright. But there’s also a woman mixed up in there, somewhere. Isn’t there.”

He scoffs, but she’s a Vegas girl. She knows when she’s on the money. 

Candy Morningstar looks around the cavernous penthouse, taking in the strange detailing on the walls, the baby grand taking pride of place in the room, the wall of vintage liquor that might buy Fletcher’s twice over, the startling view of the city. She had pegged him the moment she first saw him, and she’s met her share of the filthy rich. Yet now, somehow, she gets the sense that she’s merely scraped the surface with her new husband.

It’s like she’s staring at untold depth and wealth, hidden in plain sight.

He returns to the room with a glass of something dark — bourbon, she’s guessing — and he opens the piano before running his fingers over the keys lovingly. When he starts to play, it’s like his soul sighs and she settles down next to him and just listens, not wanting to sing along, not today. They sit like this for a while in companionable silence, both of them soaking up the serenity and the first real semblance of Normal in thirty-six hours.

“I’ll take the guest room,” he says eventually, as if he’s been thinking about it for a while. 

“I can’t kick you out of your own bedroom! It’s _gorgeous!_ ”

“Mm,” he replies noncommittally, transitioning to a melancholy tune she’s never heard before. “You’ll make better use of it.”

“I’ll be fine in the spare bedroom” she insists. “I’m sure your sheets are to die for, even in there, and I’ll sleep like a baby.”

“I insist,” he replies mildly, before crooning softly in a haunted baritone.

 _Memories_ _  
_ _Light the corners of my mind_  
_Misty water-coloured memories_ _  
Of the way we were_

“Lucifer…” Candy hesitates, putting her hand on his to still him. “What really happened between you and the Detective?”

Lucifer goes quite still and Candy presses again, just a little.

“You said you needed us to be married for a while so you can get your job back. That we needed to persuade your work partner that you’re off-limits and you’re only after a professional relationship. I mean, I just thought you needed a trophy wife to set some boundaries with her because she wasn’t getting the hint. But then we get here, and then there’s that Lieutenant guy—”

“Marcus Pierce,” Lucifer clipped grimly.

“And I’m pretty sure that he and your detective are seeing each other.” She looks closely at Lucifer now. “But you knew that already, didn’t you.”

Lucifer says nothing as he takes a gulp of his bourbon.

“Look, I’m not here to judge, and you know I’m in this to help you,” Candy continues. “It’s the least I can do after you saved my ass and gave me my bar back. But at least help me help you better. Are you trying to make her jealous? Is that the real deal?”

“No,” he replies immediately. And yet Candy could swear he doesn’t sound sure.

“Did you sleep with her?”

“Well, _I_ certainly didn’t sleep.” He takes another long drink, emptying the glass as he does before setting it down carefully on the piano.

“So that’s a yes.” She doesn’t wait for an answer because she already knows. 

It takes another minute or three before he finally says, “I need her to move on. From me.”

“Okay.”

“And I want to be close to her.”

“Oka~ay...”

“But she’s still mad at me. And I think I know why… but I’m not entirely sure, either.”

He gets up from the piano and pours himself a refill before pouring her one as well. It’s a beautiful vintage, of course. Goes down easy like Sunday morning.

“After… we were together, a family situation arose. Basically, my mother’s human body was starting to split at the seams and we were suddenly hard-pressed to get her somewhere safe and say our goodbyes. Preferably as far away from humans I care for. Including the detective.

“My sister owned a handy little gadget — like a celestial lockpicking Swiss Army Knife, just missing parts. We already had two out of three bits; I just needed to figure out how to get the third component to make it work. And there was very little time to muck around. So I’d left the detective a note, basically saying I had to run. And then I’d asked her — on the proviso that she cared for me even a little — to… perhaps… wait for me.”

“... and?”

“She didn’t wait for me.” He downs the entire contents of the second tumbler in one long, thirsty gulp without looking at her. 

_Oh._

“Do you want her back, Lucifer?”

“I want… to give her what I’ve always longed for. _Freedom._ Insofar as I can give it without going mad myself.”

Candy Morningstar puts her hand gently on her husband’s, still clenched tight around the whisky tumbler.

“Okay.” 


	4. Quod Fustuarium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who've left comments and kudos along the way. I've always enjoyed writing, but it's twenty times the fun when others are along for the ride. xx

He walks from his stuffy office straight toward the cliff face where the air is crisp and new, and the grass underfoot feels mossy and soft. Above him, a cloudless blue sky stretches overhead and billows like a heavy silk sail rolling languorously in the wind he cannot feel. The sky seems far too close to be true, he thinks. If he dared, he could reach out and touch the very inks, only to find his fingers tainted. It’s strange that an endless sky can feel almost constrictive.

Marcus walks until he spies the pair standing right at the very edge of the rock face, whereupon he stops to watch. Their heads are bowed towards each other, both of them surveying the vastness beyond their feet, the cauldron of stunning colour and ethereal light below pulsing like a heartbeat that tickles the skin even from here, its unutterable beauty only hinted at. Marcus doesn’t care for the view, doesn’t ever want even the barest vapour of its glow to touch him. But he hunches now as he continues to stare, his eyes starting to smart and burn as the far greater figure of the two raises a paternalistic hand and grasps the shoulder of the younger figure. 

_You are my son, in whom I am well pleased._

_I loathe him,_ Marcus realises as he watches the greater one depart and disappear. And at first he starts slowly. A brisk and determined walk even as the ground beneath his feet begins to stretch thin and long. But then he breaks into a run, the mossy grass disappearing underneath, the silk sky around him streaking away as he flies to the cliff face with a fearlessness that is not his own. 

The lone figure turns in surprise as Marcus rushes him. He senses a devastating reckoning as the feel of sturdy ground slips away to nothing, as he lunges with everything he has, as he collides furiously and takes them both over the cliff and starts to fall… fall… 

Marcus jerks awake.

“Sshhh…” he hears someone soothing him as his eyes adjust. It’s not his bedroom, but it’s still familiar. Hers. _Chloe’s._ And then he hears the rain outside and feels the sheets against his bare skin. They’re both still naked, he remembers.

Because Trixie is away at Dan’s.

“I just had a bad dream,” he murmurs in the dark, staring out at the rain slashing at the window.

“What was it about this time?” But he doesn’t answer her and she waits, noting the beads of perspiration on his neck, his back. His dreams seem to be getting worse, she worries. 

And then quite randomly—

“You and Lucifer — did you two…”

She stiffens immediately, holding her breath.

“Did anything ever… happen?”

“Oh,” she laughs lightly and is so thankful now for the dark. “If I got a twenty every time someone asked me _that_ question. No,” she lies like a rug, “we weren’t anything special. I mean he was my partner and we had a good routine going. Th-there might have been a spark at one stage, maybe? But I mean — you’ve met the guy. He’d flirt with a pot plant. And then smoke it.” She feels Marcus chuckle beside her. “And he’s such a narcissist, it wouldn’t have gone anywhere. I mean, can you imagine me? With _him?_ ” Her laugh is hollow. 

“Go to sleep,” she beckons Marcus and he turns suddenly and pulls her to him. She kisses him tenderly and presses her face to his chest, listening as his heartbeat slows, as his breathing eventually evens when he falls back to sleep.

She lies awake long after, eyes wide and tearless.

*

“Miss Lopez!”

Ella jumps and then scurries 'round the large work island and comes right up to Lucifer.

“What are you doing here!” 

“Why, working, of course.”

“I thought Decker fired you.”

“It’s not technically her call,” Lucifer grimaces, glancing up in the direction of Pierce’s office. “Although I daresay she has Management’s ear and it won’t be long. What _are_ you doing!”

Ella is staring up at Lucifer, a deep frown etched in her inquisitive face. “You look like hell this morning,” she pronounces. “Have you slept at all?”

“Well, I _am_ a newlywed. Isn’t that the fashion, sleeplessness?”

“Nah,” Ella shakes her head, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “That’s not what this is.”

“Could you please focus on the task at hand, Miss Lopez? The detective is shutting me out—”

“Oof, can you blame her?”

“—and she’s not letting me in on the case at all, despite Lieutenant Brick’s explicit instructions to take me along like a poodle. You heard her yesterday! She wouldn’t even let me mojo the pastor! And I _know_ he’s hiding something because men of the cloth always do. And even if he’s not directly guilty, he’s a walking repository of an entire congregation’s naughty little confessions. Such a _waste!_ ”

“What the hell are you doing here!” snaps Dan at the door before bellowing to no one in particular as he storms away, “Are we even the police anymore? Where is the _fucking_ security around this place!” 

Lucifer stares after him in astonishment.

“Which stick lodged itself up his firm buttocks this fine morning!” 

“It’s Charlotte,” Ella tells him through gritted teeth so Dan can’t lip read. “Well, it’s a few things. He’s been pretty tense for ages trying to link an armed robbery and murder to the Phoenix Triad. But he’s also been in a spiral since Charlotte left. And because you both skipped town about the same time, Dan was totally convinced you’d actually run off with her—”

“—SHE’S MY M—”

“—but then you returned with Candy instead. But Charlotte’s still gone, and it’s really eating him up. Now he’s wondering if you had… you know… _disappeared_ her.” Ella scoffs. “I know. Totally loco, right?”

Lucifer wisely says nothing to that.

“Look,” Ella levels with him, “I don’t know what went wrong with you and Decker, alright? She refuses to talk. To any of us. But we know it has to be about you, because who else would it be? She’s not like that about anything or anyone else.”

Lucifer’s chest squeezes _._

“And I’m her tribe; I am #TeamDecker all the way. So it’s not like I can fraternise with the enemy — especially when what happened to you in Vegas didn’t exactly stay in Vegas, you know what I’m sayin’?”

She lowers her voice now, looking around furtively as she adds, “Thing is, Decker hasn’t brought her A-game since you left. She knows it, and it’s driving her nuts. And you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Hear what, Miss Lopez?” Lucifer asks with all innocence. But his eyes are glinting and his teeth are wolverine white as he grins.

“Ultimately, Decker is a pragmatist. If you’re useful enough to her, she can’t ignore you forever. Because she actually cares about catching the bad guys, above anything.” Ella picks up a case file and smacks him in the chest with it. “There’s, uh, a photocopier in the corner room just across from here that isn’t in use at the moment…” Ella looks at him meaningfully before turning quite deliberately back to her microscope.

“Copy that, Miss Lopez…” Lucifer murmurs, slipping Detective Douche’s swipe card smoothly into his pocket on his way across the floor.

*

That was, bar none, the best sleep she’s ever had, ever, EVER. 

Candy Morningstar stretches like a cat in Lucifer’s bed and squints at his ceiling with a quizzical frown before she starts rooting around the marble bedside tables and headboard. She finds the switch eventually and flicks it, her mouth forming into an O as the false ceiling draws back with a whisper-quiet electronic hum to reveal her entire self mirrored in a humongous looking glass the breadth and width of his massive bed.

That kinky bastard.

Later she finds the kitchen surprisingly well-stocked, his shelf of cereals even displaying brand new boxes of her favourite staples. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Lucifer had paid attention to her breakfast favourites the last time he wore her red snuggie and crashed at her place.

The penthouse looks different in the day — way less seductive bachelor sex pad and more arthouse beautiful, natural light streaming through the walls of glass and hallowing the space. Candy especially finds the ancient scripts etched into the entrance leading to his bedroom strangely majestic. Almost as if Lucifer were a king. And with this mountain-top view of LA, maybe he is. 

She potters around curiously after breakfast, gingerly picking up books and bric-a-brac, and feeling each time like she’s holding a missing jigsaw piece of history in her hands. “You don’t love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or their fancy car,” reads part of a framed letter, “but because they sing a song only you can hear.” It’s signed, simply, _Oscar,_ with a love heart drawn near. 

For all his love of modcons, Lucifer keeps and cherishes old things. And for all his talk about being the Devil, he seems highly invested in what people make of God. At one point, Candy picks up a tome only to realise that it’s a Latin bible so old, it doesn’t even break up the books into chapters and verses. _This belongs in a museum,_ she thinks. Except Lucifer had gone through the entire thing using a bright orange Crayola as a highlighter-slash-bookmark, and redacted whole passages with white out.

 _Coleus, Jerome!_ Lucifer had scrawled in large, indignant flourishes down one margin. _Non possis distinguere tuum podicem a Puticulis._

In another, _Pfft. Quod fustuarium!_

And later, _Basia basiliscum meum, Culus._

She is just passing by that wall of bourbon when she notices a whisky tumbler that wasn’t there on the counter last night. _He’s definitely a closet alky,_ she snarks, picking it up and giving the half-inch of residual clear liquid a tentative sniff. But it’s only when she takes a sip that she realises why she can’t smell anything. It’s just water.

*

Pastor Jonathan Smith is a man as forgettable as his name, Lucifer thinks, and perhaps as far from the late Father Frank’s humble brand of practical theology one might get. Judging from the multimillion-dollar sanctuary alone, the pastor’s church seems as bloated and sparkling as Father Frank’s office had been gloomy and squat. _Nothing but a Godly business_ , Lucifer smirks as he counts off the seats in the performance arena and reaches over three thousand. It especially sets Lucifer’s teeth on edge in a burn-it-all-down sort of way.

The hypocrisy.

“Detective Morningstar,” booms Jonathan’s voice, ushering and gathering him with a grand, sweeping gesture into his office.

“Lucifer,” he corrects, stepping neatly away from the embrace.

“Like the devil?”

“ _Exactly_ like the devil,” Lucifer purrs as he ignores the proffered chair and settles himself instead on the edge of the wide mahogany desk, his eyes scanning the small sea of framed family snaps lining the edges of the room. 

_Thou doth protest too much, perhaps._

“I’ve heard of interesting names in my lifetime of ministry — comes with the territory of baptisms and christenings when you’re in LA,” the pastor quips jovially. “But I can’t say I’ve ever encountered a Lucifer Morningstar. Big fan of the comics?”

“God-given,” he returns drily, proverbial feathers ruffled. 

“So you are… you believe in God?” Jonathan probes in surprise, curiosity lighting up under his bushy white eyebrows. 

At that, Lucifer barks a short, mirthless laugh. “Alas — as things tend to go with dear old Dad — the feeling is no longer mutual.” 

“You are wrong, Lucifer. God is Love. And with fatherly love, there must sometimes be discipline. It might feel at times like God has abandoned us or is set against us. But it’s only because of our childish, rebellious ways. Trust me, son: the Devil isn’t someone to joke about. He is real, he is evil, and he is the way to death. God is Life. And God always has a plan for His children. And His plan is always, always the better plan.” 

Well, the pastor’s gone and done it now, hasn’t he.

“Right. Enough with the niceties, Jonny,” Lucifer’s voice turns silky. “I’ll cut to the chase — us two,” Lucifer waves at the space between them, “will continue to be sworn enemies so long as the cherry-picking proof-texting half-baked so-called theology about Evil Me gets bandied about for another two millennia — by the likes of shallow charlatans like you — to justify why people choose to do very bad things. Here's the crib notes, Preach: _I_ don’t make people do bad things. _People_ make people do bad things. If you can preach that about guns on Sundays, try learning that about the devil, hmm? And then leave me the hell — yes, _that_ hell — out of _this._ ” He points at the door leading out to the circus.

“And secondly — I can see you eyeing my Burberry suit like a fat boy panting after an ice cream truck, you prosperity gospel hack. And hell will freeze over before I drop even a Thai hooker’s ping pong ball in your shiny collection plate. Now. Where is your strange son?”

“Prosperity gospel hack?!”

“Your son? Six-feet-two, hard to misplace, dresses like a lumberjack, fascinated by my Louboutins… Patrick, was it?”

“Timothy—”

“Close enough.” Lucifer rises to his full height and looks down at Jonathan’s shiny pate imperiously. “Well? Where the bloody hell is he!”

The pastor opens and closes his mouth a few more times before blurting, “He’s usually in his room. He does our IT and our AV. Has a real head for it. He’s a good boy… on the spectrum—”

“—spectrum?”

“Asperger’s. Keeps to himself. But really, a very bright boy, when he puts his mind to something.”

“Fine,” Lucifer sighs, flicking a glance at the preacher’s clock. He’s running out of time if he hopes to catch the Detective. 

“Right. Let’s start with you then.”

“Start with… what?”

“Why, the interview we never got to have,” Lucifer grins toothily, leaning over suddenly. Hungrily. “I’m here about a case, after all. The one about your dead preacher friend, the good Reverend Jacob Saunders. And the last time we met, I didn’t manage to get a word in edgewise. Or a proper look-see.”

“I have nothing to hide,” Pastor Jonathan Smith replies bravely but Lucifer notes the slight tremor in the man’s voice covered over now with a soft cough. Lucifer’s smile widens knowingly.

“Goooood,” he coos. “This should be easy then, Preach. Friend of the deceased. Helpful. Horrified, maybe. Possibly angry — I mean look at how the man died! I’m just curious, after all that… what is it you really want?”

Lucifer’s hold of the pastor’s gaze grows vice-like as he feels the heavy haze of seduction flow out from him, thick and perfumed like a warm blanket that wraps around his prey, almost anaesthetizing him. He watches as the pastor’s eyes dilate even as his mind wars with his mouth until finally he spills out—

“I wanted Jay to pay for how he killed Annie’s spirit!”

The pastor drops in his chair from the sudden release as Lucifer crooks his neck thoughtfully. “Oooh!” he smiles with barely disguised glee, “do tell.”

“I didn’t want him to pay for it with his life, exactly,” the pastor amends miserably. “But God forgive me, Jacob didn’t deserve that woman. She got up to Assistant Attorney General, did you know that? Annie is clever. Beautiful. Elegant. Godly. She’s a better human being than he could ever be, and I watched as Jacob just got bitterer and bitterer the brighter her star shone. Until one day he made her quit it all. Kept preaching on Sunday about how men and women were both made in God’s image but came home and treated her like… He just had to be first,” Jonathan’s lips are drawn tight, his anger curling and palpable. “Had to be the Alpha, the big man… Anyway. I loved Annie. _Love_ her. Even though she’s his wife and I have no business feeling the way I do about another man’s spouse. She’s a changed woman now. A shell of her former self, and he did that to her. He broke his wife.”

It is an odd thing for the Devil to feel empathy for any man of the cloth. Lucifer had experienced it only once before. He certainly didn’t expect to feel it again — and for a commercial churchman, no less.

Jonathan may be a preachy, profiteering little arse. But Jacob’s jealousy grates Lucifer’s very soul.

And at least he’s learnt the wife has motive now.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Lucifer decides, not bothering to wait for the preacher to show him out of his own Dad’s house.

*

Lucifer senses, somehow, that she’s near as he scans the room while he walks down the stairs, his skin prickling with anticipation. He spots her instantly this time, his eyes falling on her form hunched over at her tiny desk — head bent, hair tied in a loose plait. Long, tresses of honey-blonde hair frame her pale face, just begging for him to brush them past those cut-glass cheekbones and tuck them carefully behind her ear.

He moves to her before his brain is quite ready and she looks up suddenly to glare at him, as if anticipating his approach. It’s a look that might actually kill were he not the Devil. Then again perhaps it still can, given his enduring vulnerability around her.

“We didn’t call for you,” she points out, glancing at her boyfriend’s office as confirmation of the ‘we’. 

“Just passing through, Detective!” he smiles breezily, picking up her stapler absently. “I’ve got a lead,” he adds. “The pastor and I had a nice little chat. Didn’t we, darling.” 

“Oh yes you did,” replies the stapler in falsetto, “you cheeky devil.”

“You went back to Pastor Jonathan?” Chloe’s eyes narrow. “Behind my _back?_ ”

“I went to church,” Lucifer corrects her mildly. “They just love visitors there. Especially when you’re minted.”

“You _bribed_ the Pastor?”

“Not at all,” he replies glibly, avoiding her gaze. “I merely asked him what he wanted.”

Chloe’s eyes snap up to Lucifer at that. She knows full well what that means, of course — he’s wheedled a confession or truth she’d been unable to procure herself, damn him. He gazes back down at her, his manner placid and unassuming but his eyes watchful and waiting. 

And of course the pastor would have caved, she curses inwardly, taking in Lucifer’s favourite uniform of crisp white shirt and jet-black suit, blood-red pocket square folded and tucked. He is never more persuasive than when he is handsome, and Lucifer Morningstar is devastating on that score when he’s in his favourite uniform. And smells decadent.

Oh, he’s in fine form today.

She shakes her head. 

“I can’t use any of it.”

“You haven’t even heard what he said!”

“And I don’t want to!” she snaps finally. _I have to learn to do without you. Like I once used to._

Lucifer’s eyes widen. 

“Detective,” he frowns, “I thought you care about the case.”

“Of course I care about the case!”

“Then why does it matter where the leads come from?” Lucifer reasons. “I’ve done nothing illegal today — and you know how hard that can be for me,” he almost whines. “I went as a private citizen and the pastor invited me in. Opened his heart to me. Dad’s fandom seems to like that, confessing. Getting things off their chest so they can sin some more.”

She squeezes her eyes. She’s probably going to regret this, but… “What did the pastor tell you?”

Lucifer smiles, delighted. “Only that he’s in love with the dead Reverend’s wife. And how their marriage had been on the rocks ever since the Rev decided he needed to squeeze his brilliant wife’s stellar career into a 1950s-shaped kitchen to soothe his injured male pride. Did you know she used to be the Assistant Attorney General?”

“In Cook County…” Chloe frowns, coming to life as she rifles through the case file for Annabeth Saunders’ profile. “She was at her sister’s in Oregon at the time of the murder.”

“Or so she claims,” Lucifer smirks, getting up from her desk. “I think it’s time we paid a call to the late Reverend’s widow. Shall we, Detective?”

“No, Lucifer.” Chloe’s tone is firm. “I’ll check in with the widow. Alone.”

“But Detective—”

“Chlo!” 

They both turn just as Detective Douche stumbles down the stairs two at a time. And if it were possible, Lucifer marvels, he looks even more homeless chic now than he did yesterday.

“You’re bleeding, Dan!” the Detective points out in horror. “What happened to you!”

“It’s just a cut,” bleeding Douche brushes aside after a cursory glance at the ruddy trail down his arm. “Listen, Chlo. I need your help. That triad case I’ve been chasing? It blew up today.” He drags her away by the elbow into an empty interview room after throwing Lucifer a filthy look, as if daring him to follow. Lucifer just throws up his hands in mock surrender. 

As if a bit of door and pathetic distance is going to affect his hearing, pfft.

“What happened with the triad case?” Chloe demands to know in a low, urgent voice. “Was it the stakeout today?”

“It was,” Dan affirms grimly. “We’d put a BOLO last week on Jian Shen Wang and Victor Li, and today we had a tip-off to pull Jian Shen over. It was fast, and they must’ve gotten spooked and moved. We eventually tracked him into a local Chinese medicinal shop after we were sure he was about to make a drop. We weren’t taking chances: we called in three Adams with eight troopers to block him in as he left the store in his vehicle and two made it just in the nick of time, but then 34 got delayed by passing traffic and Jian Shen somehow snuck through. As he passed, someone swore over the radio he was brandishing a firearm and I remember yelling, ‘He’s got a gun!’ and then the next thing…” The Douche seems to have trouble breathing as he takes a moment.

“Sshhh... take your time,” the Detective soothes.

“The next thing, there’s a shot. And Jian Shen’s car crashes into a roadside pole. He’s dead, Chlo. And Victor Li, he’s gone. We got nothing.”

“Fuck, Dan. I’m so sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am when I have to go explain this shitshow to the Boss,” the Douche surmises dejectedly and Lucifer almost feels sorry for him.

“Would you like me to go in with you to talk to the Lieutenant?”

“Yeah…” he accepts unhappily. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

The Detective now otherwise engaged, it’s patently clear there’s nothing left for Lucifer to do here. Thwarted, frustrated, he jumps off the Detective’s desk and is already sliding into his Corvette before anyone notices he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> LUCIFER IN LATIN  
> **  
>  _Coleus, Jerome!_ = Bollocks, Jerome! 
> 
> _Non possis distinguere tuum podicem a Puticulis._ = You don't know your ass from a catacomb. 
> 
> _Pfft. Quod fustuarium!_ = Pfft. What a hack!
> 
>  _Basia basiliscum meum, Culus._ = Kiss my basilisk, Asshole.


	5. House Calls

Neil deGrasse Tyson is just about to reveal how many stars the naked human eye can see when she hears the elevator doors slide open. Candy freezes, her thumb marking the page as she strains to listen. 

The instant she hears their voices, it’s a mad furtive scramble to throw some different clothes on.

_Where the hell is that push-up bra…_

“Boo.”

Maze leans against the Assyrian-etched doorway to Lucifer’s bedchamber, both hands casually flipping a karambit each as she coolly surveys the luscious upturned derriere before her that can only belong to the newly minted Mrs Morning Fucking Star.

“Oh!” The luscious derriere jumps and its owner turns around with a start, a clutch of sequins and feathers barely covering her generous chest as she gazes blankly back at Mazikeen. The word ‘HOTWIFE’ is emblazoned across the front of her bright white thongs, little red devil horns sitting wittily on the rim of the O.

“Omigod, but, like, are you the dominatrix we booked online?” Blondie guesses, looking suddenly stricken. “I am _so_ sorry, but I totally meant 12 _AM_ , and not _PM_ — I get the two mixed up sometimes? I can’t _believe_ I did it again—”

“Found her,” Mazikeen calls out over her shoulder, never once breaking eye contact as she stares at the living, breathing doll before her. Stripper, most probably. Gorgeous tits, nice legs, _great_ ass — original, from the looks of it earlier. Perky enough to comfortably park a bike and rest a pint on, as Lucifer might say. 

Just his type.

Well. Just his type before he met _her_.

Mazikeen sniffs.

“Are you in here?” she hears Linda say right before the doctor ascends the short stairs and stops dead in her tracks.

“We didn’t mean to intrude!” Linda apologises to Blondie before thinking to shield her own eyes.

“Yeah we did,” Maze replies, still twirling the knives. 

Blondie blinks, confused. “I don’t understand.” She points to Linda while she looks at Maze. “I didn’t order the Hot Secretary package.”

“I’m Dr Martin,” Linda explains hastily. “Lucifer’s therapist? We’ll… leave you to finish up here. Come on, Maze.”

“I’m Candy!” The Blonde smiles as Linda half-drags a smirking Maze out of the room. “Candy Morningstar? Lucifer’s wife,” she adds helpfully before giggling, “I should probably get Lucifer to put in some doors, huh.” 

Neither of them answers her as they make their way back across to the living room and each take an armchair. Maze and Linda exchange a look. They’d gotten their confirmation; she’s as good as said it. Ring and all. 

They’re really married. He’s really gone and done it. 

“Lucifer,” Maze grumbles in Lilim, “you’ve _really_ outdone yourself.”

“You said he just needed to blow off some steam,” Linda accuses fiercely.

“Yeah, I meant fucking off and then coming back months later with an extendable penile tattoo and a pet tiger named Crouchella,” Maze points out flatly. “Not marrying Vegas Barbie!”

“This is so not a good decision,” Linda groans softly, shaking her head.

“This is Lucifer,” Maze shrugs as Candy Morningstar bounces into the living room.

*

 _There’s something about the girl,_ Linda’s gut tells her at length. Something that just doesn’t feel right. Or honest.

It’s almost like Candy Morningstar is trying to be someone she’s not.

“So he just… bought your little Vegas dive. And then proposed. Just like that.” Maze’s eyes are boring into Candy’s, a near-decimated lollipop stick clenched between her teeth menacingly.

“Um, yeah!” Candy blinks.

“Did he say why?”

“Why?” Candy looks confused. 

“Why he’d want to marry you.” 

Candy blinks again.

Maze slaps both her knees. “Fuck, I knew it.” She leans forward suddenly, dead serious. “Did you drug him?” 

“What? No!”

“Because if you did, you gotta spill. What did you use? I’ve tried a truckload of Tranqs. K-pins. Yellow-Vs. Actually, all the Vs of the flamin’ rainbow. One time, I even roofied him enough to down an elephant.” Maze slices the air with her hand. _“Nothing.”_

“Um, Maze…” 

“I didn’t roofie him!” Candy protests and her large eyes actually start to brim with tears. “I’d never roofie him,” she adds, her glossy lower lip trembly now. “I actually thought we had a real connection, you know? H-he was so sad and I listened, and then I was s-so sad about my bar and _he_ listened, and then the next thing I know, he decides to settle the debt on my bar. Three hundred grand, just like that! I could lap-dance till I’m ninety and never pay off that kind of money, not with the interest they were charging. But then he told me he once found out he could get high from doing nice things. And he _so_ wanted to get high. And don’t you think that’s so romantic?”

Linda has to shrug. It _is_ weirdly romantic, actually. 

“No one’s ever been so nice to me before,” Candy explains, her voice small. “When he proposed, after all that… how could I refuse?”

Linda raises an eyebrow. How indeed.

“Candy,” Linda starts slowly, “did you feel, perhaps, quite indebted to Lucifer after such a grand gesture?”

“Of course I did!” Candy smiles brightly until she reads Linda’s face. Her smile wavers after that. “Is that a bad thing, Doctor?”

Linda smiles kindly. “I just wanted to be sure that you married him for all the right reasons. And not just as a thank you.”

“But I am thankful!”

Linda tilts her head sympathetically. “I’m sure you are. But something tells me that you might be trying to act a part, as a consequence.”

For the barest moment, a strange look passes over Candy Morningstar’s face — or perhaps it isn’t a look so much as a veil or mask slipping to reveal something darker underneath. Linda cannot be entirely certain, because Candy’s eyes widen almost instantly as she pastes a sunny smile on her face.

“Lucifer is the sweetest man I’ve ever met,” she repeats firmly as Maze reverts to karambit twirling out of sheer boredom. “And I’m not faking how I feel about my husband, no matter what you’re incinerating,” Candy adds with surprising edge. “Lucifer and I understand each other really well and we get along _great_.”

“Alright, Candy” Linda returns evenly. “I just wanted to be sure that you’re not trying to be something you’re really not, just to please Lucifer. Good relationships are built on both parties being honest with each other, and not about molding themselves to fit an idea that the other party might have of them,” Linda can’t help but warn. “Because sooner or later, those façades will crack, Candy.”

Candy Morningstar nods solemnly. “I think I understand, Doctor.” She seems to hesitate before reaching over to take Linda’s hand with some urgency. 

“You’ve been talking to Lucifer for a while, huh.”

“I have,” Linda replies cautiously. “But I can’t tell you what we’ve talked about. That’s privileged, even though you’re his wife.”

“I understand, I really do. It’s _such_ a privilege to talk to him,” Candy agrees feelingly. “It’s just…” Her voice drops to a confidential whisper, _“I don’t know him very well.”_

Maze snort-laughs.

“I’m just wondering if you could, you know, give me some advice?” Candy asks now, meekly. “Like, let me peek at the answers at the back of the Lucifer textbook?”

And Lucifer's Father help her, but Linda feels herself softening inside even as her head is sounding the klaxon and warning herself to stay right out of it. But the girl is as thick as two planks and yet desperately keen to make a decent job of this madness. And maybe, after all is said and done, she’ll be exactly what Lucifer needs after all.

 _It’s still patient care,_ the good doctor tells herself as she takes a deep breath and begins.

“Your husband,” Linda surmises almost to herself, “is a solipsist.”

Candy’s face softens. “I haven’t heard him sing yet. I bet he sounds _amazing_.”

“Smaller words,” Maze advises as she springs from the couch and scrounges around the bar for a drink.

“A _solipsist_ ,” Linda tries again. “Not a soloist, Candy. Someone who is extremely self-absorbed. To Lucifer, the world really does seem to revolve around him.”

“Oh.”

“And he doesn’t ever mean to be cruel, but sometimes he can be so… single-minded. And it can be hurtful to those around him when he doesn’t stop to consider them and their needs. Candy,” Linda lowers her voice, “has Lucifer ever mentioned… his father?”

“A coupla times.” Candy wrinkles her nose as she thinks. “I don’t think they like each other very much.”

“I’ve never met Him,” Linda confesses and means it. “But you’re right — their relationship is strained—”

“—like a mansplainer’s balls on Hell’s stretching rack!” Maze calls out from the bar.

“It’s a large part of why, I think, Lucifer is the way he is,” Linda admits, skirting dangerously close to the line of doctor-patient confidentiality. “It’s why, even though he might act like he’s feeling better than ever, it’s best he still keeps up with his therapy. More than ever, Candy,” Linda urges, gentle but serious, “Lucifer needs his therapy.”

Candy Morningstar tilts her head to the side. But there’s a flare of intelligence and suspicion in her eyes as she regards her husband’s therapist.

“Why does Lucifer need therapy, Doctor?”

“Because he’s still recovering from a deep and lingering trauma, Mrs Morningstar,” Linda finishes with a sigh, crossing the line altogether because needs, must — and it wouldn’t be the first time when it comes to Lucifer anyway, #SexForTherapy. “It explains his hyperactivity. His restlessness. His overt sexuality. His complete overreaction when he thinks he’s been robbed of agency. It explains his oppositional defiance. His constant need to grant favours. His dissociation when emotional truths hit awfully close to home. It explains…” 

_… why he’d take off without warning and marry an airhead he barely knows._

Candy’s eyes are blown wide.

“Doctor, you need to see my Luci! Like, now!”

Dr Martin shakes her head and pulls herself up to stand. “I’ve already said too much,” she admits ruefully. “But this is a step that Lucifer needs to make on his own. After all that’s happened lately, choosing to come see me will already be progress.”

Candy rises from the leather couch as well, her hands crossed in front of her, her face thoughtful and a little pinched. For the first time since their meeting, Linda finally thinks she’s glimpsed the real Candy Morningstar.

“I give you guys three weeks before Lucifer fucks it up,” Maze offers generously. “Four, if you stretch it out with roleplay.”

*

“Decker, hang around, will you.”

Dan gives her a look, a knowing one. She can’t tell if it’s apologetic, but she gets her answer when he squeezes her arm lightly on his way out the door. Alone in the office with the Lieutenant now, she stands in front of his desk with her hands clasped demurely before her. Both of them wait a good fifteen seconds until they feel safe to speak.

“Chloe,” Marcus sighs, rubbing his forehead with both his thumbs, “I really wish you didn’t do that.”

“Do what, Lieutenant?” 

“Use me — _us_ — like that.”

She’s still deciding what to say to that when Marcus gets up from his chair and walks around his desk until he’s standing in front of her, his arms crossed in front of his broad chest, his expression disapproving. Disappointed. She juts out her chin.

“What did I do exactly, Lieutenant.”

“You knew exactly what you did back there, Chlo.” He huffs tiredly. “But it’s obvious that you want me to spell it out, so I will: you were using our relationship — my feelings for you — to get Dan off light.”

“That’s not what—you just heard what happened!” She protests instantly, eyes flashing. “It was fast, Dan couldn’t get confirmation on the gimme, and how was he to know someone would get jumpy as soon as he called it? That car crash wasn’t his fault—he didn’t even pull the trigger!”

Marcus looks unimpressed, but Chloe isn’t finished. 

“And besides,” she continues doggedly, “why was he the only David out there? Case like this, and he’s the lone detective to show up? _Of course_ stuff hit the fan — he’d been set up to fail!”

“Espinoza alone out there is precisely why I’m pissed, Decker!” Marcus snaps. “He just ran that op like a fucking B-grade cop show and that’s why it blew up like that. Thanks to his dick-waving heroics, now we’ve got that clan on high alert and you can bet Victor Li is none too pleased his boyfriend — or blood brother, or whatever — is dead!”

Chloe’s mouth falls open, stunned. Marcus rubs his eyes tiredly. He hates this. It’s a fucking mess and she just cares so much, all the time…

“Decker,” he finally speaks after a prolonged silence. “You need to stop trying to wipe up his messes.”

“I just… I didn’t know…” She shakes his head. “He’s worried about this woman he’d been seeing. She disappeared.”

“I’ve heard.”

“He’s usually… better.”

“He’s a professional,” Marcus replies firmly. “You’re not his mother.” _Anymore_ , he adds mentally. _You’re not his mother anymore._

Chloe’s head snaps up. “Is this because it’s Dan? Because he’s my ex-husband?”

“No,” Marcus returns instantly. Easily. “I’ve told you, Chlo. Stuff like that doesn’t affect me. I’m really not a jealous kinda guy.”

“Everyone gets jealous sometimes,” she reasons. Her mind flicks instantly to charcoal-black Prada and hot pink sequins and she closes her eyes, shutting them out. Her heartbeat quickens like she’s running away, fast. 

“Well, I’m not everyone.” He slips his hands in hers and pulls her to him gently. Waits as her body softens and melts into his frame, as he wraps his arms around her and holds her tight. 

“I’m not jealous,” he explains, “because I don’t have to be. I trust a good thing when I see one. And you,” he smiles, “are a good thing. A good person.” 

When he bends his head, she lifts her face and kisses him willingly, soaking in that steadying strength of him, revelling in his steadfastness. He’s such a rock, she marvels. And so unbelievably mature, and secure in himself, and… normal.

She sighs into his mouth as his tongue meets hers and tangles with it. It should be so easy to fall for him, especially the way he kisses like that. Honest. Uncomplicated. Like a man truly in love. 

It should be so easy. She just wishes it could be easier.

*

His stomach rumbles peckishly the moment he smells whatever divine concoction has thought to waft its way over to him from the kitchen.

“That you?” Candy calls out before appearing in person, her hair back to its giggly curls like it’s showtime. She sighs, obviously in relief and rather pleased, as soon as she realises it’s just him.

“Just blowing through, ‘mafraid,” Lucifer grins. “You’re looking rather lovely and leggy,” he adds absently, a quick nod at her outfit. She’s back in her silver hooker heels, her dress flirty and white this time and barely, _barely_ covering the lace wrapping her bum. 

“I just wanted to be in full camo — just in case,” she explains vaguely. “You’re back early,” she adds, dress flaring as she twirls back and around the corner to finish up in the kitchen. Lucifer follows behind her, carelessly leafing through the day’s mail without really taking anything in before he chucks the stack in the recycling and strolls over purposefully to the dirty-gold and emerald-encrusted box on the sideboard. 

“ _That’s_ your Rolodex?” Candy remarks in awed amusement as he deftly flicks through the contents therein.

“The old Egyptians,” he says by way of explanation. “I swear I was going to throw this out someday,” he admits. “I love their flair but by _Dad_ , they could be such a bloody gaudy bunch. Then again, that box is just perfect for — well, hello!” he announces, holding up the tiny thing in triumph and waving it at her with roguish delight before slipping it into his inside pocket. She holds up two thumbs, happy for him.

“You heading out again?” he hears her call out from the kitchen as he strides back across towards the piano. “Grab a taco before you go! I over-catered. Never, ever cook when you’re famished, huh.” 

Lucifer slows as soon as he sees it sitting there on his piano, pages fanned out, a bookmark holding its latest reader’s attention towards the front. He stops and stares at the dog-eared copy of _The Master and Margarita_ , first edition in English. He’d lost the one Mikhail had bestowed him between moves — a sore point to this day. Behind closed doors, the man hadn’t just known how to play doctor — he could write like a demon. And had been properly funny.

“You reading this?” he asks as Candy wanders out to where he’s standing.

“I only just started,” she replies, looking a little concerned. “Hope you don’t mind. I don’t get that much time to read in my line of work and, well, you have a lot of weird books. Many of them about the Devil,” she adds.

“This is one of the better ones,” he admits, smiling a little as he picks the volume up and thumbs through the pages. Something he reads elicits a private chuckle. For a moment after, he looks listless.

“Humans,” he sighs. “Like bloody brilliant mayflies.”

He turns and hands the book back to Candy. “Read away, Mrs Morningstar. As they say, _mi casa es su casa._ ”

He follows her back into the kitchen. Tacos sound brill, after all.

*

“You,” Candy observes between bites, “had a disappointing day.”

They’re seated next to each other on bar stools at the kitchen island, salsa running down her hand as she takes another bite. She slurps it up before it gets too far and licks her fingers. 

“It didn’t quite go as planned, no.”

“The Detective still not letting you in?”

“And after I’d risked church cooties and mojoed the pastor, too,” he complains. “Oh don’t worry,” he adds as Candy raises a quizzical eyebrow. “I’d just taken his confession. Coerced it, really. A useful little nugget fell out eventually and it seemed to impress the Detective, but not nearly enough to sway her. Yes,” he decides, his jaw resolute. “It’s time to pull out the bigger guns.” He pats his breast pocket reassuringly. 

Candy does not want to know.

“How long have you had this place?” she asks instead, tilting her head towards the rest of the penthouse. 

“Mm, almost eight years now, actually. It’s the longest I’ve stayed put in one spot on Dad’s green earth,” he admits, looking a little startled.

“I don’t blame you — this is a gorgeous place. LUX is amazing,” she adds sincerely. “I mean, don’t get me wrong — I’ll always love Fletcher’s and I miss it already, even though I know it’s in great hands, all thanks to you. But LUX is…” Candy gives a low whistle.

“Why, thank you,” he grins. “And thank you, Candy, for sacrificing your time away from your beloved Vegas.”

“A deal is a deal!” she chirps.

“It is still appreciated. It’s…” He wrinkles his forehead. “It’s… nice. To have a friend. Here. Now.”

“Lucifer,” she smiles kindly at him, “it’s honestly the least I can do.”

“Well!” He grins, bursting the moment. “If luck be a lady and the lady be you, I won’t be needing your services quite so much tomorrow after I reveal my other hand to the Detective,” he explains enigmatically. “So I can always fly you back home and you can check in on Fletcher’s.”

“You really don’t have to do that, Lucifer.”

“Rubbish,” he decides, wiping his hands on a silk napkin. “We’re a modern couple! Couples telecommute all the time!”

“Alright, maybe one day.”

“Fine,” he rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “But since you’re missing your bar so much, come join my set tonight.”

Her eyes light up at that. 

“Are you sure?”

“We could cobble together a few duets. It’ll be fun,” he assures her breezily. “Come on…” He nudges her, his smile devilish. 

The doctor is wrong, Candy realises now. Lucifer isn’t a solispit, or whatever that word had been. He’s perfectly capable of thinking of others, even if his bailout did turn into a _quid pro quo._ But Candy is used to _quid pro quo._

And pretending to be Lucifer’s wife isn’t exactly turning out to be a hardship.

“What?” he asks mildly, taking her plate and his own to the dishwasher. She continues to sit on her barstool and watch as he cleans his own kitchen with meticulous care, the scene before her oddly comfortable and domestic. 

“I said you had some visitors today,” she tells him now. “Someone totally intense named Maze… and your therapist.”

“Oh?” His grin is all teeth and doesn’t reach his eyes.

“They didn’t stay long,” she adds. “Gotta say — therapists in LA? Totally different level of care here than back home. I’ve never heard of one come out of their way to make a house call before.”

“What did the doctor want?”

“Nothing much,” Candy replies, studying Lucifer closely. “She just really seems to care and wants you to drop by. Sooner, rather than later.”

“Hmm,” is all he says, as if he didn’t quite hear her. But it’s only when she leaves the room to read that he stops to stare at his hand, the platinum of his wedding band catching the downlights above so it hurts his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longish wait between. Got distracted and started another fic, and then got snowed under by work. 
> 
> Also, I realise that this chapter is excruciatingly light on actual Deckerstar action. Don't worry — those two will get thrown together again in the next chapter. :-)
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. Comments warmly, heartily welcomed.


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